


The Bookshop

by st_jimmy_987



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Miscommunication, Missing Scene: The Bookshop Opening, Misunderstandings, Nesting, Other, Slight pining, both godsons mentioned in passing, but not really, im not entirely sure how to tag this right now, like super slight barely there blink-and-you’ll-miss-it pining, sort of through the ages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:54:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23494165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_jimmy_987/pseuds/st_jimmy_987
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley, while closer than any other living being in any plane of existence, seem to have two very different ideas of what they mean to each other.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 119





	The Bookshop

**Author's Note:**

> Whelp.
> 
> I’m not sure how good this is, but I’m quite tired of staring at it right now. :) haha
> 
> Enjoy lots!! :)

Crowley reached out towards the door of the new bookshop, his fingertips barely brushing the handle of the door when he felt it; angelic presence, more than just Aziraphale. Instead of throwing the door open with reckless abandon, like he’d planned in order to surprise Aziraphale, Crowley crept closer to the door to peer into it.

It was still more reckless than he should’ve been; Aziraphale was facing him, the two angels in front with their backs to the door, and his angel was already looking quite stunned. Crowley squinted at the group, trying to hone in on the conversation through the closed door, and Aziraphale happened to meet his eyes right at that moment. He turned white, eyes rounded in surprise and barely concealed horror, and Crowley frowned at the expression.

Lifting the objects in his hands, he shook the box enticingly at the window pane, mouthing ‘chocolates’ as he did so. Aziraphale’s gaze darted from him to the angel in front of him- - -Gabriel, most likely, with Sandalphon standing right next to him- - -and Crowley managed to tune into the conversation just in time.

“I do not doubt that whoever replaces you will be as good an enemy to Crowley as you are.” Gabriel was saying proudly, and Crowley made a face before he could stop himself. Right before the sentence could even fully process in his mind, Gabriel was continuing onwards. “Michael, perhaps.”

No. Crowley’s face twisted even more, and Aziraphale gave him another fearful look from where he stood.

‘Not Michael!’ Crowley mouthed at him frantically, shaking his free hand around wildly as if that was going to help him get his point across. ‘Michael’s a wanker!’ He couldn’t really decipher the look Aziraphale gave him, but it didn’t matter; Crowley turned and vanished from the entrance of the unopened bookshop, mind racing with half formed thoughts and plans to prevent the angel from leaving earth.

XXXX 

Later, much later, Crowley crept into the bookshop quietly. Gently shutting the door behind him, Crowley scented the air briefly before heading towards the back room. It was quiet, almost unnervingly so, but Crowley could sense Aziraphale in the back by himself.

He was sitting in an armchair, staring down in confusion at something in his hands. Crowley leaned against the door, watching him silently for a moment.

“Well,” he drawled out, and took great pleasure in the way Aziraphale seemed to jump right out of his skin, “that was quite close, wasn’t it?”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale sighed, leaning back into his chair. He shot him a disapproving look, one Crowley met with a bright grin, and gestured across the table at the sofa. Crowley sauntered over to it, dropping down easily and spreading his arms along the back of it in order to sprawl more comfortably. “I assume that my staying was _your_ doing then?”

“Guilty as charged.” Crowley dropped his voice taking on the tone he’d used to convince Gabriel. “‘I bring glad tidings, Mister Crowley, for I have heard tell that the angel Aziraphale, your nemesis, will be brought back to Heaven- - -’ or whatever the fuck it was that I’d said- - -”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said again, and the demon laughed brightly.

“Oh, come off it, I was panicking!” He said. “I can’t honestly be expected to remember things fully in that kind of a state, it’s just unrealistic.” Aziraphale settled more comfortably in his chair, looking like he was trying to bite back a smile. The expression warmed something in his chest, something Crowley studiously ignored, though he did take a moment to carefully examine the angel from under his glasses. “What did the feather brains really want, anyway?”

“I _was_ being promoted.” Aziraphale said archly, and Crowley felt his eyebrow rise up his forehead. He made an inquiring noise, one Aziraphale seemed to interpret as a ‘go on, then’. “Gabriel wanted to bring me back up to Heaven, like you said. Michael was going to be my replacement.”

“Come off it.” Crowley scoffed the words this time, tilting his head back. “What of the bookshop, then?”

“It would’ve been used as a-a base of operations, if you will.” Aziraphale said. “For Michael, and any other angel they would station down here.” He lifted his eyes with his cup, taking a small sip as he glanced around the room; his shoulders looked oddly tenser, considering that he was staying, and Crowley found his gaze following the angel’s around the back room. “Never mind that it’s my- - -”

“Well, it’s practically your pride and joy, innit?” Crowley cut in incredulously, taking in the details of the room and finding that they suited Aziraphale to a tee. Aziraphale shot him a look that he waved away, pressing onwards. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose, but still! What angel is gonna care for all these dusty old books the way you would?” Aziraphale hummed, and Crowley leaned forward. “Look me in the eye, angel, and tell me Michael would give one singular- - -”

“The point is, I’m not going to Heaven now, am I?” Crowley leaned back again, squinting at Aziraphale. He looked nervous, fiddling with his cup in his hands and not meeting his eyes for very long. “I’m staying down here, thanks to you.”

“Right, right.” Crowley leaned back and, with a jolt, sat up again. He snapped his fingers, yanking the chocolates from where he’d stashed them, and held them out to Aziraphale. “Nearly forgot. For you, angel. For your bookshop.” Aziraphale’s eyes widened, and he swallowed heavily before reaching out and gently pulling the box from him. Beaming with pride at the stunned look on his face, Crowley snapped again and pulled forward the potted plant as well.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said it almost reverently, and Crowley pulled the plant back. His angel had a funny sort of look in his eye, one Crowley had caught in small glimpses and was always hidden away when he tried to take a closer look. It was a dangerous look, and Crowley found himself speaking before his mind had fully caught onto the potential danger.

“I’d like to remind you,” he hissed just loud enough for Aziraphale to hear, “that we find oursssselvessss in a very precarioussss possssition, angel.” Aziraphale’s eyes widened and darted upwards, then met Crowley’s again. They looked a tad more serious now, less dangerous, and Crowley found his self control. “I know it’s not very traditional, angel, but the plant and the chocolates will have to do for now. If you’ll accept them, at any rate.”

“Oh, Crowley.” He was beginning to wonder if all his angel’s words had been knocked from his head somehow. Aziraphale certainly didn’t seem out of sorts or worried now, but all he seemed to be able to say tonight was Crowley’s name. It was worrisome, all the way up until he said, “of course I’ll accept your plant, my dear.”

He’d kept speaking, but Crowley’s heart flipped around inside his chest. It was all he could do to make sure the potted plant made its way safely into Aziraphale’s hands, the words ‘ _my dear_ ’ echoing around in his head like some kind of church bell. It was the first time Aziraphale had ever called him anything so _endearing_ , and while Crowley knew how he was supposed to respond to it, it seemed to have shut his brain down. He was still struggling to get it back where it was supposed to be when he realized Aziraphale had stopped talking and was just staring at him; the plant was still in his hands as well, held against his chest protectively.

“Crowley,” He said warmly, and Crowley hummed at him in response. He watched as Aziraphale looked down at the plant and took a deep breath before lifting his head again. There was a determined look in his brilliant blue eyes, and his shoulders squared as he said, “I really do love plants, you know.”

There was a deeper meaning in his words, the ones he’d carefully chosen and said with such a weighted voice. Crowley felt his heart kick into overdrive, shivers running up and down his arms even as he tried to decipher what his angel meant, and he licked his lips carefully.

“I know, angel.” He said softly, making sure his voice held the same weight. Understanding flashed in Aziraphale’s eyes, his smile turning beaming even as he tried his best to quash it down, and Crowley felt his own mouth twitch in response. “I’m quite the same way.” He watched as Aziraphale’s shoulders relaxed, his breath leaving his body in a soft ‘whoosh’ that left him smiling dumbly at the plant in his lap.

He had to change the subject soon, one of them had to make sure they moved beyond this weirdly heavy moment between them, but Aziraphale was still smiling like the plant held all the happiness in the world; Crowley leaned back against the back of the sofa, feeling warm and fuzzy for a moment longer.

XXXX

Crowley grew increasingly paranoid over the next eighty or so years, and while it would be easy to blame Aziraphale for it, he knew it wasn’t entirely his angel’s fault. It was horrendously easy to arrange meetings, to prolong them and spend hours upon hours together. They’d go to the theater, on walks around the park, to dinner and to lunch and for drinks in the back of the bookshop. The sofa, once practically good as new, quickly learned the shape and curvature of Crowley’s body; he’d sprawled on it, slept on it, and all the while Aziraphale watched him fondly over his wineglass from his armchair.

The breaking point came when Dagon suddenly manifested in front of him two blocks down from Aziraphale’s bookshop, where Crowley had been heading to meet him for lunch. 

“Crowley,” she paused, letting Crowley curse for a moment before raising her eyebrow; he stopped, glaring at her sullenly from behind his sunglasses. Sniffing disdainfully at him, Dagon cleared her throat pointedly for a moment, a grating sound that tore at Crowley’s nerves more than his ears. It seemed to go on for ages until she said, “Thank you. As I was saying, there’s a job we need you to do.”

“What happened to the usual methods of communication?” Crowley snapped.

“It’s time sensitive,” Dagon shot back, “meaning we need you to get to it now. We don’t have time for you to mess about procrastinating like you usually do.” Crowley worked his jaw from side to side, irritated and using it to hide the panicked thundering of his heart.

He got his instructions and stalked off, in the opposite direction of the bookshop. When he was sure that he was far enough out of Dagon’s view, he snapped, pulling a missive out of thin air for Aziraphale to know that plans had been changed. He hoped that there weren’t any humans in the bookshop, and that it landed where he’d wanted on Aziraphale’s desk; after a long moment of careful stalking, Crowley found himself _fervently_ hoping that he’d been far enough from Dagon that she hadn’t noticed the spike of demonic activity. That hope stirred up more and more panic in his chest, and Crowley barely focused on the assignment he’d been given.

Two weeks later, there was the disastrous meeting for Holy Water.

XXXX

Aziraphale looked practically the same when Crowley saw him at the end of the church aisle, and even though his feet were burning in pain, his heart was running nearly a mile a minute in his throat. Aziraphale sounded stunned to see him, then indignant, and then so soft that Crowley could barely keep his attention on the three idiots in front of them. And while Aziraphale put all his focus on them surviving the bomb, it was a simple matter for Crowley to make sure the books made it too.

Afterwards, when he’d taken Aziraphale back to the bookshop and been invited in, Crowley was less surprised than he probably should be to see it still the same as the last time he was in it. Aziraphale handed him a glass of wine and fussed about his feet, as he was wont to do (‘ _because I’m an **angel** , Crowley, and I happen to care for **all** of God’s creatures_’) and Crowley looked over the bookshelves and the books in the back appraisingly. It had been almost a century since he’d been back in the place, after all, and the place had to have changed in that long time period, even if it looked like it had stayed the same for all intents and purposes. All Crowley had to do was find where the changes were, now while the angel was distracted.

If the change was more on the nose than he’d thought, Crowley helpfully decided to keep it to himself. After all, there were many more books than he’d anticipated in the back room, even for Aziraphale, and he glanced out the door to see the partially filled shelves out on the shop floor; there was more than enough room for these books to be out there, and yet for some reason, they weren’t. For a moment he just looked between the two, vaguely confused, and then he leaned back against the sofa cushions.

“Why’re those back here?” He asked, and Aziraphale hummed for a moment as he focused. It wasn’t a distracted sound, more a thoughtful one, and Crowley found his attention pulled to his angel instead. “Angel? Why do you have stacks of books back here like this? Shouldn’t they be on the shelf, where they won’t get sold?”

“Oh, really.” Aziraphale huffed, glancing up at him only briefly before focusing his attention downward again. The quick dropping of his head didn’t hide how his ears turned red, and Crowley tilted his head to the side so that he could appreciate the color a little better as he waited for a response. Just as he was about to open his mouth again, Aziraphale said, “it hasn’t been quite the same without you here, my dear. I’m afraid that I just didn’t…feel quite right about the shelving situation, as it were.”

Crowley’s heart flipped for more than one reason, and he understood Aziraphale’s need to keep his attention occupied. He sort of wished _he_ had something to keep his attention elsewhere, and so focused on the wineglass in his hand.

“Right, well,” he stammered, sounding lost even to his own ears. He swirled the wine gently, his eyes trained on the whirlpool of liquid he was creating as he did so. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, even as serpent-like as it tended to appear, and right now, it was making talking extremely difficult. With a loud swallow and a firm attempt to reel in his tongue, Crowley forced himself on. “Ngk, maybe I’ll help you out then. With the…shelving situation.”

Aziraphale looked up at him, eyes wide and cheeks turning a bright red to match his ears. He looked more pleased than Crowley really thought he needed to be, considering they were just talking about books, but it was Aziraphale; _of course_ the books would be what won the angel over in the end. Crowley bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling back too obviously, too fondly in the space between them.

“Right, well,” Aziraphale spluttered, and turned his attention back to Crowley’s feet. He looked improbably, impossibly redder, and his fingers trembled where they cupped Crowley’s ankle; they both seemed to have forgotten Crowley’s burns, though Aziraphale was still staring right at them and Crowley could still feel the pain radiating up his calves. It was like the moment between them had pushed everything else, everything it had seemed unimportant, to the back of both of their minds. “If it’s not too much of a bother, then, perhaps tomorrow afternoon…?” His voice trailed off hopefully, and Crowley felt his shoulders relax and his lips twitch up in a smile.

“Yea, sure, angel.” He said easily, trying to hide how happy it made him. “I can be over tomorrow afternoon. To help with the shelving, of course. Can’t leave you to do something like that all on your own, now can I?”

“Certainly not.” Aziraphale breathed, and Crowley noticed that he didn’t even try to hide his happiness. At least, until his gaze flickered above Crowley’s head, and he pushed himself into a standing position. “Well, my dear, that’s your feet taken care of for now. No more running into churches, at least not until the blisters are gone, do you hear?”

“Yes, angel.” Crowley said, and he couldn’t even make it sound as sarcastic as he wanted it to be. Aziraphale smiled down at him, glanced upwards again, and seemed to reluctantly move to his usual chair; still, he settled himself in comfortably, waving his hand and bringing forth a small lap blanket. “Next time I save you from a church, I demand that you pick me up and keep my feet from consecrated ground. You would not _believe_ how hot that aisle was.”

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale laughed brightly, “never fear. I think that’ll be my last foray into the spy game for quite some time, let me tell you. But never mind that for now, honestly.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a wineglass appearing at his own elbow.

And while Crowley tried his best to distract his angel from the topic at hand, nothing could stop him from noticing the warm look Aziraphale kept giving him from across the room. It relaxed Crowley even more against the back of his sofa, the wine bottles collecting the later in the evening it got, and somehow, someway, it matched the ever growing bright, warm, preening feeling that was steadily growing in his chest.

XXXX

The peace lasted for another thirty-six years. Crowley brought his angel books and food and, on one rather impulsive and daring occasion, a black silk pillow stuffed full of his feathers with a matching fuzzy down blanket for him to use on the sofa he slept on. Aziraphale beamed and redecorated with Crowley’s help, and enthused about all the meals they had together; though he’d gone fairly speechless as the sight of the pillow and blanket, the next time Crowley visited, they’d vanished from sight. Hidden away, most likely, because Aziraphale didn’t look nearly guilty enough to have thrown the damn things out or given them away, and also because Crowley could feel the demonic energy settling around the shop like a blanket.

He told himself it was because it clashed with Aziraphale’s overall style, and left it at that.

At any point, the less he interacted with his own management team, the less paranoid he became, and lately it seemed like Hell was backing off again to let him do his own thing. He let himself become comfortable, going so far as to let himself doze off in little naps on the back room sofa whenever he felt up to it, and was in the middle of what promised to be a long nap when Aziraphale reached over the back of the sofa and put his hand on his knee.

“Crowley.” He said it quietly, but very urgently, and it was the tone that cut through his sleepiness more than anything else. He was alert nearly instantly, eyes darting around the bookshop in a quick search before looking at his angel.

“Aziraphale?” He hissed back, too cautious to raise his voice any higher. Aziraphale’s face wasn’t helping; he looked far too serious, his gaze lifted towards the ceiling and his mouth set in a thin line. Something shivered down Crowley’s spine, and he pulled himself into a sitting position without thinking as his angel’s eyes continued to inspect the ceiling. “Aziraphale, what is it?”

“Someone’s trying to get in.” He said, after a silent moment that went on far too long to be healthy for Crowley’s heart. The odd way he emphasized ‘someone’, combined with the weary way his eyes traced the wooden beams, clearly pointed towards an ethereal visit. “I think it’s Gabriel, he’s been wanting to stop by the bookshop recently. You might have to leave, my dear, if only for a moment.” Crowley stared at him, mind not really connecting the dots properly, and Aziraphale gave him a small smile. “I’ve warded the bookshop, you see, just in case. In times like this, when we wouldn’t want any unscheduled visitors.”

“Like your boss?” Crowley’s eyes darted up at the same time as Aziraphale’s, as if he could also see what his angel was seeing. It didn’t work like that, of course it didn’t, but Crowley barely had time to begin panicking; Aziraphale lifted him easily from the sofa, ushering him out the back door just as the bell rang from the front. “Aziraphale- - -”

“I’ll be with you in just a moment!” He called loudly over his shoulder, and shoved Crowley out the back door. “I’m so sorry, my dear.” He whispered, and then the door was shut in Crowley’s face. Crowley debated for all of three seconds before his panic set in and got the better of him; he bolted from the bookshop, abandoning his Bentley for the moment with a wild thought of retrieving it later.

And when Aziraphale gifted him with Holy Water a week later, it felt worse than when he rejected him for it in the 1800s.

XXXX

By the time Armageddon rolled around, they barely begun being comfortable in each other’s presence again. Aziraphale had gotten back into the habit of inviting Crowley into his shop, into the back room, and Crowley had slowly begun relaxing in his usual way on the sofa; sprawled out without a care in the world. Now that he knew Gabriel and any other angel could pop in whenever they wanted, shop warded or not, he didn’t try to let his guard down far enough to sleep again.

But things were progressing, as it were. Crowley still brought gifts for his angel; books and food and little trinkets, though he never mustered up the courage to bring over any more of his feathers, in any way, shape, or form. Aziraphale still lit up like a beacon when presented with the gifts, and usually made Crowley help him with any shelving or redecorating that needed to be done.

Aziraphale’s pure reluctance to leave the bookshop to watch over Warlock was understandable to Crowley, but just barely. He himself had had absolutely no issue leaving behind his own apartment, even though he would (only reluctantly, and only ever to himself) admit that he would be worried about his own plants. He waited, almost impatiently, as Aziraphale fussed over his books and the knickknacks he’d given him, keeping an eye on his watch as time tucked steadily onwards.

“Angel.” He said loudly, right as Aziraphale went to make what was likely the third pass around the bookshop, and Aziraphale stopped right in front of him. He gave him a look, a pleading one that melted the tension right off of Crowley’s shoulders and made his lips quirk up in a smile. With a quick glance around, and up, he put his hands on his shoulders and held him in place for a moment. “Listen, Angel. We aren’t going far.”

“I know that, my dear.” Aziraphale said softly. His hands began wringing themselves together, now that he’d been stopped from his nervous pacing, and Crowley let him do it. “It’s just…it’ll be so long before I’m truly home again, won’t it. And-and my books…”

“Look, Angel.” Crowley said, “I won’t pretend I don’t understand why you’re so worried. I am aware of what this bookshop really is, what it means to you.” To us, he didn’t say, but Aziraphale seemed to hear the two words anyway, and Crowley had never been so thankful for his sunglasses before now. The smile Aziraphale gave him was quite nearly blinding. “It’s just for a few years. Barely even a blip in our lives, Angel, and then we’ll be back home before you know it. You’ll barely even notice you’ve been gone.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale sighed and, much to Crowley’s mingled relief and pleasure, allowed him to steer him out of the bookshop. “You’re very clever, you know, you always seem to know what to say to put me at ease.”

“Course I do.” Crowley said distractedly, herding his angel into the passenger side of the car and making his way around the front. As he slammed the door after him, he added, “what kind of…y’know…would I be if I couldn’t? Honestly, Angel.”

Aziraphale’s mouth opened, and Crowley floored it from the bookshop. The yelp that escaped from his angel made him grin widely, though the fact that Aziraphale’s hand landed right on his knee brought blood to his face in a heartbeat. He chanced a glance at Aziraphale, relieved to see that his angel had his eyes tightly shut, and focused on getting his face back under control.

It was a long drive to the Dowling’s residence, even with Crowley’s driving, and even though Aziraphale griped and complained about his driving, he never actually let Crowley go. Crowley gripped the steering wheel ever tighter in his hands, preventing himself from reaching out and taking Aziraphale’s hand in his own. Queen blasted between them, switching from _Don’t Stop Me Now_ to _Under Pressure_ to _Princes of the Universe_ , all without a single complaint for the choice of music from Aziraphale.

And the closer they got to the Dowlings residence, the more their appearances changed until, right when Crowley stopped the car and got out, they’d taken on their forms for the next couple of years: Aziraphale as the gardener, and Crowley as the nanny. They made their way to the house together, Crowley willing herself not to turn red as Aziraphale took her hand and placed it on the inside of his elbow.

Of course, that went right out the window when the butler opened the door and Aziraphale opened his mouth.

“Good day to you, sir!” He said cheerfully, and Crowley quickly lifted her hand to hide the overly fond, exasperated smile that broke out on her face. “How is everything going today?” The butler looked them over carefully before his lip twitched.

“Apologies,” He said loftily, “but the Dowlings accept no solicitors on their property, and as such- - -”

“Solicitors!” Aziraphale spluttered, still sounding somewhat bright as he did so, “my good man, we are not here to solicit anything!” The butler lifted an eyebrow, and Aziraphale seemed to pull himself back a bit; at the very least, his hand tightened very briefly on Crowley’s hand, and the pressure was nearly enough to distract Crowley from what her angel said. “My wife and I have driven here from London, you see, and we were quite hoping that, that we would be able to apply for positions here. Right, love?”

Crowley froze, hand still hiding her mouth, and she suddenly found herself exceedingly grateful that she managed to incorporate sunglasses into her new look; the blank, wide eyed stare she knew was gracing her face currently was not likely to do her any favors, job wise. Aziraphale jostled her arm gently, murmuring something quietly under his breath, but Crowley found she couldn’t quite breathe properly. After a moment of silence that dragged on for far too long, Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“My wife here,” he said, jostling his arm gently once again to indicate Crowley, “was hoping to apply for the nanny position you’ve got available!”

The hand at her mouth finally dropped, as did the smile that had frozen on her face, though Crowley couldn’t help but bite the inside of her cheek. She hadn’t thought of a reason as to why they were showing up together on the drive up, and Aziraphale was already several steps ahead of her on this. He beamed happily, patting the top of her hand gently as he conversed, and Crowley forced herself to pay attention right as he was finishing up.

“Of course, I was planning on the gardener position, you see, because at our age, it’s always best we work together. Right, love?” Crowley nodded faintly, not quite sure she would be able to trust what came out of her mouth right then. Bless Aziraphale, she thought fiercely, for throwing her off so much before she’d even started her work. This was just like him, honestly. “I’ll be going round back then, see what the head of the grounds says. See you tonight?”

“Yes, of course.” She said softly, and Aziraphale let her hand go. It fell to her side, and Crowley couldn’t help but smile gently at him as he bowed. “Best of luck, angel.” Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled in amusement, and as he strolled off on his own, Crowley realized what she’d said.

Schooling her face into something a bit more severe, Crowley turned to the man at the door and let him lead her to Mrs. Dowling. Honestly, bless Aziraphale. As much as it was likely to be gentle teasing, at least he’d come up with some sort of way to excuse her calling him ‘angel’ in front of everyone; Crowley had no doubt that she’d slip up on that at some point.

XXXX

Aziraphale was, first and foremost aside from being an angel, most definitely a creature of comfort. Crowley practically lived on the sofa for a time, she’d sat in Aziraphale’s armchair and study chair, and, again, had practically lived in that bookshop for a time. It reeked of comfort, between all the cushions and the pillows, and the blankets that Aziraphale always managed to pull from nowhere when it started getting too cold for Crowley’s liking. The bookshop itself was overly homey and welcoming, as long as no one was there trying to buy a book, and more comfortable than Crowley really knew what to do with, at times.

All this to say that she’d expected more from the home Aziraphale was given as the Dowlings’ resident gardener.

It _was_ cozy, she’d give it that at least, but that was about all it was. Crowley didn’t get the same feeling here that she does at the bookshop, not even close, and it was obvious that Aziraphale knew it. They meet there in the evenings, Aziraphale with his books at his side and Crowley curled up with her phone to watch Netflix, and every so often Aziraphale will hum or make a discontented noise.

“I rather miss it.” Aziraphale told her one night, tapping his hand gently on the back of the sofa by her head. Crowley lifted her eyes, humming at him, and he clarified, “the bookshop, my dear. I rather miss my bookshop.”

“You can always go back, angel.” She said softly. “We have days off, you know. Or, Hell, just connect it to here. Don’t even have to worry about it, ever, in that case.”

“I could.” Aziraphale murmured back to her. “But it wouldn’t be the same.” They sat in silence for a moment, and then Aziraphale said, “Crowley.” Her eyes lifted again, and Aziraphale took a deep breath. “When this is all over. If we…if we raised him properly. And he doesn’t destroy the earth.”

“He won’t, angel.” She said it reflexively, automatically, and Aziraphale smiled brightly at her for it.

“Well. Would you…would you stay? With me?” He brought his hand down, glancing up at the ceiling as he always did when he knew better. In his lap, his fingers began twisting over themselves, his unconscious nervous tic that always made Crowley want to put her hands on his. “It’s just, the…the _bookshop_ , you know, and- - -”

“Angel.” Crowley said softly, sitting up more and lifting her glasses up. Aziraphale broke off and glanced at her, almost shyly, and Crowley felt a fond smile covering her face before she could hide it. Aziraphale smiled back, eyes darting up once more before meeting hers. “Angel, of course I’d stay. Where else would I possibly go?” Aziraphale’s smile turned warm, and Crowley dropped her sunglasses and returned her attention to her phone.

What a silly angel, she thought fiercely to herself, trying to tamp down the blush she could feel rising in her face. The whole point of her saving the earth was- - -well, maybe not the _whole_ point, of course, but a very strong reason behind her decision to save the earth was to continue spending time with Aziraphale. Where would she go, when they succeeded?

Besides. She ducked into her phone further, as if that would hide the train of thought from Aziraphale; besides, once the earth was saved, maybe Aziraphale would be more open to moving their relationship forward- - -from work friends to something more. He was too frightened of Heaven to agree to it now, obviously, but maybe…maybe.

Aziraphale’s hand landed on her ankle, an automatic habit that had formed in the past two years of them working at the Dowlings’ residence. Crowley glanced up long enough to see him engrossed in his book once again, his thumb making a light trail against the bone of her ankle, then focused back on her phone.

Maybe.

XXXX

And then, of course, they found out they were raising the Wrong Boy the entire time, and the race to find the Right Boy was on. They drove back to Tadfield, Aziraphale for the first time and Crowley for the second, and found the hospital had turned into a paintball obstacle course after a fire. A girl hit him with her bike, and he would maintain that truth until he died in the fierce battle that was rapidly coming upon them.

Confused and lost, Crowley could only watch as Aziraphale slammed the bookshop door on him, barely even pausing to respond to his last statement. It was odd, especially since Aziraphale had spent so long bemoaning the fact that Crowley was vital for the bookshop to feel right, whatever that meant, and Crowley waited several moments for the door to open again. It didn’t, and though he blessed the angel to Heaven and back, Crowley felt oddly bereft as he drove away. Something lodged in his chest, growing heavier the further he got away from the bookshop and towards his own apartment.

And then.

And then.

“I don’t even like you!” Aziraphale said forcefully, and Crowley sneered at him in response, because how stupid did his angel think he was? There were lunches, lots of them, and plays and drinks in the back of the bookshop, far too many to properly recount at this point in time. Crowley bared his teeth and fought back with his own words, but then Aziraphale lifted his eyes briefly; so quickly, so suddenly, that the only reason Crowley saw it was because he was staring so intently. But then the angel’s words were followed up with, “there is no ‘our side’, Crowley! It’s over.”

And Crowley felt his heart stop in his chest and that heavy spot underneath it, the one that started growing when Aziraphale left him outside of the bookshop on his own the night before, swelled up so much that he could barely speak. He had to open and shut his mouth twice before he could even try to say, “Well. Right then.”

He turned on his heel, unable to stop himself from one last shot- - -“have a nice doomsday,”- - -and though he’d never admit it to anyone, Crowley ran away.

The feeling of loss and despair didn’t hit him right away, not really. It was more of a subtle onslaught, just growing and growing without him noticing until he found himself seated in the movie theater, watching some shitty claymation movie until Hastur decided to butt in. He battled with going to Aziraphale for help, decided not to, and ended up at the bookshop anyway.

“Work with me, I’m apologizing, yes?” He gestured frantically, trying to urge Aziraphale without words. Aziraphale just looked confused, and Crowley glanced around him before hissing, “get in the car, angel!”

But Crowley’s angel was stubborn, of course he was, and Crowley didn’t have time to fight. The weight in his chest was crushing him, and it almost physically hurt to even glance at the bookshop, and the Dukes of Hell were still after him. He didn’t have time for this, and the feeling of being abandoned on his own prompted him to snarl something mean at Aziraphale- - -“ _and when I’m off in the stars, I won’t even **think** of you!_”, and if that wasn’t the biggest and only lie Crowley had ever told his angel- - -as he practically flew back to his flat.

It took him a bit longer than it should have for Crowley to think of the Holy Water, sitting so very innocently in his safe, and then a few good seconds after that to think of a plan to use it; there was a brief moment, very brief, where the unpleasant feelings taking up the space of his chest took control of his mind and he debated the merits of using the blessed thing on himself, but he discarded the thought just as quickly and moved on.

He killed Ligur, which was a plus, and trapped Hastur in his phone, which he would take, and he floored it back to Aziraphale’s; whatever Aziraphale was trying to tell him about the Antichrist and his location was important, and it gave Crowley a renewed sense of hope…

Right up until he pulled up to a flaming bookshop. The heavy feeling in his chest cracked and revealed an unfathomable chasm in the pit of his soul, but Crowley was nothing if not an optimist; terrible trait for a demon, but his body moved on autopilot and he made his way into the bookshop only to discover Aziraphale wasn’t there. The more fruitlessly he searched, the wider that chasm opened up, until he had to concede his ground and give up. Aziraphale was gone, wiped off of the face of the earth, and Crowley found himself looking at the worst thing he could ever think of: eternity, on this spinning hunk of rock, all alone, with no one to talk to or…

He grabbed a book on his way out and left.

XXXX

Crowley was directionless and he didn’t even know why. Aziraphale was gone, yes, and so was the bookshop, unfortunately, but there were other things on planet earth that were worth saving and Crowley _knew_ that, he did. It was part of the reason he’d pitched his plan to Aziraphale to begin with, because he couldn’t let Earth fall to ruin just so Heaven and Hell could have their little pissing contest. He still wanted to save his little planet now, on his own because there was no other option, but…

That chasm in his chest had opened up into a giant canyon, and all Crowley could do was call for another round of alcohol. His angel was gone, and so was his bookshop, and somehow nothing else seemed as important as that. It was ridiculous, and he knew Aziraphale wouldn’t be happy with him for abandoning his own plan like that, but Aziraphale wasn’t happy with him anyway when he…when the bookshop…

Crowley called for yet another round, and then squinted as the light in front of him shimmered. For a moment he thought he’d finally hit another limit of drunkenness for him- - -he’d been so drunk he couldn’t remember how to sober up before, but somehow never so drunk that he started hallucinating things, or got discorporated from alcohol poisoning- - -but no.

“Aziraphale?” He asked incredulously, and Azirapahle sounded nervous as he responded with a small chuckle. He was only partially there, just a head that wasn’t even facing him properly at all, and still Crowley’s heart leaped in his chest; for a moment, he debated the merits of sobering up. “Are you here?”

“Not sure.” He said, chuckling anxiously. “Never done this before.” And it was such an Aziraphale answer that Crowley couldn’t help the sigh that escaped him. They chatted on for a moment, at least until Aziraphale said urgently, “Crowley, listen. There’s a book, in my bookshop- - -”

“Oh, angel.” He dropped his cheek onto his palm, heartbreak crashing in a violent wave over the chasm that was slowly closing. His jaw worked for a second before he managed to force the words out. “Your bookshop’s not there anymore, it burned down.”

“What,” Aziraphale said, and his voice sounded further away than he looked. His face fell completely, and when he spoke again it sounded like he was trying not to cry. “All of it?”

“Yea, I’m sorry.” And Crowley was, he really was. They sat together in a brief moment of silence, both of them mourning the loss of the shop, before Crowley blinked back into action. “What was the book?”

“The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of- - -”

“Agnes Nutter, I got it!” Crowley scrambled, and that chasm closed up even more. Aziraphale looked pleased, and Crowley found himself with a familiar warm feeling in his chest- - -the one he usually got when he made Aziraphale happy by bringing him things or taking him out to lunch. “Look, souvenir!”

“Wonderful!” Aziraphale said, and Crowley flipped through the book at his angel’s request. Aziraphale gave him a meeting point and vanished, and Crowley couldn’t sober himself up fast enough; making sure he had the book on him as he left the bar, Crowley dashed towards his car and began flooring it to Tadfield.

After all, they had a world to save.

XXXX

Crowley stood outside the bookshop, staring up at it in quiet awe. The crevice that settled in his chest, the one that housed the quiet grief he’d had over the loss of the shop, closed completely as he walked up the steps and through the door. His shoulders relaxed as he strode carefully through the shop, reaching out and adjusting the books that needed to be adjusted. Though he never stopped scanning the crowded corners, Crowley let himself breathe in the familiar scent around him; not even a hint of smoke still lingered in the shop, and Crowley could have collapsed in relief.

Then he spied the opened door to the back room, and his usual sofa…and the black downy blanket he’d given to Aziraphale so long ago, complete with silk pillow, sitting just casually out where anyone could see it, right on Aziraphale’s usual seat. Crowley stared at them for a moment, not really computing that they were there, then snapped quickly; without thinking, he sent the two items back to his own flat, retuning the backroom to Aziraphale’s usual set up.

Then he turned on his heel and left the shop, making his way out to St. James’ Park to meet with his angel.

And afterwards, after the kidnapping and the murder attempt and ‘ _to the world_ ’ at the Ritz, Crowley and Aziraphale stepped into the bookshop together. Much like Crowley had, Aziraphale’s shoulders loosened up and he took a deep breath, letting the atmosphere of the shop settle around him. Crowley kept his eyes on his angel, not trying to fight back the fond uptick of his mouth as he did so.

The peace lasted for all of twenty seconds before Aziraphale’s shoulders tensed up again. His head turned just so, and Crowley noticed that he was scanning the outer edges of the bookshop- - -much like Crowley had done himself, several hours earlier. Tensing his shoulders as well, Crowley mimicked the scan, though he wasn’t entirely sure what Aziraphale had noticed.

“Where is it?” He asked, and though his body was tense, Aziraphale’s voice was quiet and nervous. Crowley hummed, still scanning, and put his hand protectively on his angel’s shoulder. “Crowley? Can you sense it?”

“No, I can’t.” Crowley said shortly, and he knew he sounded a bit frustrated now; they’d only just got back from dinner, after all, couldn’t they have a single moment’s peace? Honestly, the nerve…

“Well, there’s nothing for it, I suppose.” It was only because his hand was on Aziraphale’s shoulder that Crowley noticed how his shoulders slumped. He stopped scanning the shop to take in the disappointed look on Aziraphale’s face, even as he tried to hide it with a smile. “I guess Adam didn’t…quite restore _everything_ , as it were.”

“Whaddya mean, angel?” Crowley asked him, “I checked earlier, everything’s still here!”

“Well, yes, almost everything.” Aziraphale agreed softly. “But…oh, why don’t we go to the back? We were going to have a lovely glass of wine, remember? We’re celebrating, after all!” Mystified, Crowley allowed Aziraphale to lead him to the back room, sitting down on his usual sofa with his usual sprawl. Azriaphale gave him a small smile, though it dropped when he noticed the rather obvious lack of pillow and blanket on his own chair, and bustled off to the kitchen.

“Hey, angel?” Crowley asked slowly, tilting his head back to lay across the back of the sofa; his mind was connecting points he wasn’t sure he should be connecting, mostly because they weren’t making much sense. “Didn’t you have a blanket and pillow by your chair?”

“I did,” Aziraphale answered, reappearing at his side quite suddenly. Crowley didn’t jump, but only because he was still staring at the chair. “And now they’re missing. They were very important to me, you know, even if I couldn’t keep them displayed as proudly as I would have liked.” He sat down on the sofa, next to Crowley, and now the both of them were frowning at the chair. “I was so excited to have them be their proper color, you know, and now…”

“And now…” then Aziraphale’s words settled into Crowley’s brain and he snapped his head to the side so quickly he felt something in his neck snap. “Wait- - -display? But they’re black, angel!” Aziraphale gave him a look, humming in confused agreement, and Crowley felt slightly flabbergasted. “They’re _demon feathers_ , angel, why would you display them at all, let alone proudly?”

“Why,” Aziraphale frowned at him now, “why, because you gave them to me, of course! They were your offering, you know, the final piece needed to make the nest complete. It did kill me inside to change their color from black to tartan, of course, but needs must, my dear.”

“What?” Crowley put his hand to his head, massaging his temples as he tried to understand Aziraphale’s rambles. “ _What_? Angel, what nest?”

“This-This one, Crowley.” Aziraphale said softly, and if Crowley was a little less surprised, he’d be more concerned at how uncertain Aziraphale sounded. “My bookshop. I…well. I’d built it as my nest, way back in the 1800s, and you’d accepted it.” Crowley shot him a look, and Aziraphale gestured towards the window behind his chair, where- - -“you gave me a plant and some chocolates, my dear, don’t you remember?”

Crowley stared at the plant, innocently sitting on the bookshelf right by Aziraphale’s chair. He’d known the plant was there, of course he’d known the plant was there, but somehow he’d never made the connection that it was the very same plant he’d given Aziraphale; it’d been two hundred years, over two hundred years in fact, he’d thought the damn thing had up and died ages ago, and that Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to admit that to him.

He remembered, suddenly, the way Aziraphale had looked around the room, when they’d had drinks in this very spot that very first night together. The way his eyes seemed to assess where everything was, the tense way he’d held his body until Crowley produced the chocolates and the plant. How his face softened into that look that always sent off warning bells in Crowley’s head, and the way his eyes had widened in understanding when Crowley pointed out their positions, and how reverently he’d held the plant in both of his hands.

The very pointed way he’d said, “ _I really do love plants, you know._ ”

How he’d said it while staring right at Crowley, with that coy look from underneath his eyelashes that Aziraphale had perfected long ago, and Crowley abruptly felt like he was the stupidest creature on earth. He bent forward, running his hands through his hair as he thought of how Aziraphale displayed the books he’d given his angel, how he never wanted to move anything around the bookshop unless Crowley was there and able to put in his own opinions on it, how- - -

He snapped, pulling his arm upward suddenly, and pulled the blanket and pillow from his flat. Aziraphale made a pleased noise, making a comment on the color, and Crowley felt the sofa next to him lift slightly as Aziraphale stood up and crossed the room.

“I sent them to my flat.” He said bluntly, and lifted his head. Aziraphale was wrapping the blanket around his own shoulders, looking pleased, and his hum in response sounded like he was only vaguely listening. “The blanket. The pillow. I sent them back to my flat when I saw them, earlier today.”

“But…” Aziraphale tightened his hold on the blanket now, as if that would keep Crowley from taking it a second time. “But you gave them to me.”

“I didn’t know you had a nest, angel.” Crowley admitted, and Aziraphale’s face fell. Then, a moment later, his face paled so quickly that he actually swayed a bit. Crowley half stood from his seat on the sofa, but Aziraphale sat down in his chair, staring at him like he’d grown a second head.

“But…” He said it softly, his brow furrowing just a bit. “But you gave me the plant. The books…you were the one who said that we were in a precarious position! That the plants and chocolates would have to do for the moment…” Crowley winced slightly at his own stupidity again, but Aziraphale had moved on. “Every time I insinuated something about the bookshop, or even you…”

“I’d forgotten about the nest thing, angel.” Crowley said, plopping back down on the sofa. Aziraphale’s bottom lip was quivering just a little, just barely noticeably, and Crowley scrambled to keep talking. “Honest to Adam, I did. It’s just…it’s not the done…I mean. I’m a demon, Aziraphale.”

“You were an angel, once.” Aziraphale said softly, and Crowley swallowed against the lump in his throat. The conversation was starting to veer into dangerous waters, and all Crowley could think about was standing in the bandstand, arms outstretched. “A long time ago, yes, but you were. And you gave me a proper acceptance, eventually.” He lifted the blanket slightly, wiggled gently in place, indicating what he meant before pulling the blanket even tighter around himself. “And you…seemed to understand. When I brought it up.”

“I’d always figured it was something more to do with our actual situation.” Crowley said. Aziraphale closed his eyes and sighed quietly, his fingers tightening on the edges of the blanket as he tried to gather his thoughts. Crowley watched him anxiously, wondering how he was supposed to fix this now.

Adam bless him and back, no wonder Aziraphale had been more than eager to introduce them as husband and wife at the Dowlings’ residence. In angelic terms, they basically _were_ married, and it must’ve tickled Aziraphale pink to be able to express it in some shape or form. If Crowley hadn’t been so stupidly, blindingly hopeful, he’d might have noticed it better. He might have done more to make the most of it.

Hell, he would’ve done _something_ , at least, something other than what he’d done those eleven, practically wasted years.

“Do you.” Aziraphale paused and cleared his throat delicately, pulling Crowley abruptly from his own self-recriminations. Staring down at the table, he said, “do you want them back? The-the blanket. And the pillow.”

“No!” Crowley scrambled upwards at that, coming to a stop by Aziraphale and putting his hands over his angel’s. Aziraphale’s hands were trembling, just the slightest bit, and Crowley cursed himself because this was his fault, and he wasn’t quite sure how to fix it yet. The starting point was most likely this, though. “No, keep them. They’re yours, always have been.”

“But…”

“No, no buts.” Crowley sighed as well, glancing around the shop with a new understanding. All of his gifts to Aziraphale stood out to him even more with his new knowledge, and Crowley found himself feeling more warmth and more pride than he’d had before; instead of just implications and blind hope that his affections were returned, now he realized that it was _solid proof_. “I may not have understood, originally, the-the _actual_ meaning behind the shop. But that doesn’t mean that it’s not something I would’ve wanted, on my own.” Something occurred to him then, something painfully obvious now that he thought about it, and he ducked his head in embarrassment.

(Last night, as Aziraphale sat on the sofa Crowley had materialized for him, the angel had remarked about how empty his flat was, how harsh and modern. Crowley had shrugged the comment away, and Aziraphale had said, “how could you be truly comfortable in a home like this?”

“Aw, s’easy, angel.” Crowley had said carelessly as he lounged next to him, “s’not really home at all, is it? Just a place to keep my stuff for now.” Aziraphale had given him a complicated look, one that was a mixture of pride and warmth and pure sorrow, and Crowley just understood the reasoning behind it now.)

“Oh, you must think I’m incredibly foolish.” Aziraphale sighed, though he didn’t really sound too put out about it. He mainly looked a little embarrassed, pulling the blanket tighter over his shoulders. “Honestly, I suppose that I deserve this little…misunderstanding, considering how much we talk in subtext and double meanings.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.” Crowley drawled, and Aziraphale gave him a tight smile. Crowley gave him a much looser one back, and put his hands on top of Aziraphale’s, and tugged him upwards gently. His angel followed him, giving him a curious look as Crowley snatched the pillow from where it rested and lead them both back to the sofa. He settled into the corner of it, letting his gift soften the corner of the arm rest and back cushion, then held his arms out to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale sat down next to him, and Crowley arranged him so that he was leaning against his chest, still wrapped in the black blanket full of Crowley’s softest feathers. He wrapped his arms around his angel, burying his face in his fluffy white hair and letting the smell of him relax his tense muscles.

“I’m sorry for not connecting the dots sooner.” He mumbled. Aziraphale hummed, then twisted his head to the side.

“Crowley.” He said softly, and Crowley grunted. He was starting to feel the effects of the whole week crashing down on him, and it was hitting him quite harder than he’d expected it to at this point. He wondered vaguely if there was a reason behind it, because while he was expecting some lash back from the whole Armageddon thing, he was barely able to pay attention to Aziraphale as he spoke. “You said you didn’t know the bookshop was supposed to be a nest.”

“I didn’t.” Crowley mumbled, closing his eyes against the sudden weight of his eyelids.

“But you brought me things.” Aziraphale pointed out. His voice softened, becoming soothing and Crowley felt his body relax even more where it was wrapped around him. “You brought me food, and books, and plants and little knickknacks you’d thought I’d like. You brought me a pillow and blanket, one I cannot put into words how much I’ve treasured since.” Crowley felt himself blush at that, but couldn’t muster up any intense feelings about it. “You would help me redecorate, even, and I could have sworn you’d known the entire time.”

“I swear I didn’t, Aziraphale, honest to…to, well, Someone.” Crowley twisted his head slightly so he was heard more clearly as well, though he didn’t open his eyes and couldn’t bring himself to raise his voice. “It was sorta…like an instinct, I suppose. Mixed with the normal rules of trying to keep the Arrangement from discovery. I never wanted you to get caught, of course not, but…it warmed something in me, to see you happy and have you display my gifts to you so openly. This whole place…it always felt like home to me, ever since you accepted that little plant back in eighteen hundred.”

“Ah, well.” Aziraphale smiled softly, nuzzling Crowley’s chest. “That’s all right then, isn’t it?”

Crowley hummed in response, nuzzling the top of Aziraphale’s head back. He felt soft fingers taking his glasses from his face, and hummed as a Aziraphale arranged them a little better in order for napping. His fingertips brushed against Crowley’s face again, touching for the sake of touching, and as Crowley drifted into sleep, he heard the soft voice of the angel murmur something to him; the feeling of angelic miracle washed over him, warm and loving, and Crowley was helpless to do anything else.

He slept.


End file.
